


Natasha Romanoff's Matchmaking Service

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reader-Insert, SHIELD Agent Reader (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: Results not typical.





	1. The Setup

**Author's Note:**

> Here's an old kernel that I know a few people are still waiting for me to finish. And I intend to! I e-mailed myself the 1500 words I have already written for the last chapter just earlier this week, so I'll be working on that once I get a bit of a backlog on my _Harry Potter_ collection, and I finish this month's (free) raffle prize. But remember how I said in some previous author's note that past!me really likes pushing me under a bus? Well, this was a fic trade response...from 2014. What's worse is, the very first author's note specifically states "I have a good chunk more than this done, so you won't have to be checking three years from now to see if I've actually got around to the bonfire part yet." Thanks, past!me! You suck.

Most children started out with aspirations to become something completely insane: giraffe, candy shop owner, mermaid. As they grew older, most shed the skin of dazzling dreams and picked up more mundane life goals: postal worker, secretary, dentist. Not you. When told at the ripe age of eight that most people didn’t grow up to become secret agents, you latched onto that plan tooth and nail. Years later, you questioned your decision to join SHIELD based on your desire to prove people wrong–especially on glamorous mornings when your glamorous secret agent life started at the glamorous hour of four AM. 

Through your sleep-glazed eyes you could see only the expanse of runway before you as you slouched into work that morning. Orange lights running along the path dimly lit up the pavement and the four dark figures milling about a stationary quinjet. The lights in the cockpit were on, revealing two pilots inside, already flicking on switches and speaking into their headsets. You could no more hear them then the rest of the team. The three distant men chattered with one another; the nearby woman did not participate in their conversation. She remained staring off into space, likely ruminating over some important detail of the coming assignment, until you came up and pressed a thin cardboard cup against her upper arm. 

“Brought you coffee,” you yawned as Natasha turned toward you. “Good stuff,” you added at her appraising look. “Went by Starbucks on the way here, not the break room.” 

“I knew there was a reason I asked you to come along,” she said, taking the offered cup in both hands. Needless to say, Natasha looked a lot more awake than you felt. If you weren’t sure they would run the quinjet over you if you even tried, you could have curled up right there on the pavement for a quick nap. Being conscious this early hurt. You gulped down a mouthful of molten caffeine to start the process of waking up. Steam rose from between your lips as you opened them to ask Natasha a question, but no words followed, because a hand on your shoulder interrupted you. 

“Bring me some of that, doll?” Rumlow asked with a wink. You noticed Natasha smile as you twisted your head in his direction with one of your own. 

“No,” you said sweetly. All he did was throw back his head and laugh as he walked away toward the rest of his team further down the runway. Your smile swiftly faded into a scowl. “Ass.” 

“He _is_ somewhat donkey-like,” Natasha agreed lightly, watching him go. “But you know, you _did_ kiss him. At the very least you should make it less obvious that he annoys you.” 

“How am I supposed to be less obvious? All I did was tell him I didn’t bring him coffee.” 

“Yes, because the leader of STRIKE can’t tell when the sugar in your voice is fake. Rumlow knows he gets under your skin. He likes it.” 

“He gets under my skin because he’s a jerk, not because we slept–” 

“Morning, Natasha.” 

For the second time that day, you found yourself cut off mid-sentence. You looked up to tell this new arrival what for only to choke on your insult. A very familiar, very handsome man stood there–but he didn’t stay long. No sooner had Natasha greeted him then did Rumlow’s voice lift over the rest of the conversation to call: 

“Hey, Cap! What’s it feel like to be up at the butt crack of dawn?” 

“Butt crack?” Steve asked, walking off toward where the rest of the STRIKE team was laughing uproariously, whether at Rumlow’s “witty” comment or Steve’s bewilderment, you did not know–nor, really, did you care. As soon as you had _spotted_ Steve, butterflies flooded your stomach so thoroughly that many of them had to fly up to your head to make room for the others. They filled your mind with a numbing sort of buzz that barely faded when Steve left, and only enough that you could whirl back to Natasha. 

“You didn’t tell me Captain Rogers was coming, too!” you hissed. Natasha simply blinked and took an innocent sip of coffee. 

“I didn’t want you to weasel out of the mission,” she said coolly. Her eyes were fixed steadily on what you could only assume was Steve’s back, then they snapped over to your face. “Fury needs you on this. If I’d told you Cap was coming along, you’d have faked sick or something.” 

“You could have at least told me to fix my hair.” A quick pat of the back of your head told you what you already knew: in your haste to leave your apartment and get to the Triskelion, you had not bothered with brushing. Natasha eyed the tangle no doubt erupting from your scalp over the top of her cup. 

“You look fine.” Even she could not keep a straight face in light of the look you threw her, and smirked. “Okay, well, fortunately for the rest of us, the outcome of the mission does not depend on the state of your hair.” And with that, Natasha started to walk off toward the rest of the group. 

“Where are you going?” you demanded. Her smirk only grew as she glanced at you over her shoulder. 

“I’m going to introduce you to Captain Rogers.” 

“What? No.” Especially not when you looked like this and you could hardly string two coherent thoughts together. “Natasha, is this part of one of your plans to hook him up?” 

“Maybe. Maybe not.” 

She didn’t wait around to hear you protest further. You remained rooted to the spot for several seconds. This was another reason you occasionally regretted your choice in occupation: your two closest friends were a manipulative ex-KGB agent and a man that disappeared for months at a time only to appear in your kitchen at three in the morning, drinking coffee straight from the pot. After so long knowing Natasha, you _knew_ pouting would do you no good; you trailed after her, feeling yourself going steadily pink at the thought of actually having to _talk_ to SHIELD’s golden boy. 

If there was one bright spot in the matter, it was that Steve had already wandered away from the STRIKE guys. At least you wouldn’t have to listen to Rumlow _add_ to your introduction. Natasha walked straight up to Steve without preamble–which, sure, _she_ could do, since she was an Avenger, too–and gestured widely at your slowly advancing form. “Hey, Cap. Got somebody I want you to meet.” It took every ounce of considerable training you had to keep yourself looking at his face instead of your toes when you arrived, and even more to hold out a hand. “Steve Rogers, this is–” 

“[F Name] [L Name],” Steve said, taking that hand and shaking it while (you were pretty sure you didn’t imagine this part) _smiling_. 

Natasha frowned. “You two already know each other?” 

“Ah.” He rapidly released you and took half a step away. “No, I just remembered seeing you before. At the Christmas party.” 

“Oh,” you and Natasha said together. She winced, and you could not blame her. This past company Christmas party was something _you_ tried to forget as well–no mean feat, considering how Rumlow wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest about it. Before she could make so much as a stab at fixing that hiccup in her plans, however, something on Steve’s person beeped. He hastily grabbed one of the SHIELD issue messaging devices (whatever; it was a cellphone, no matter what the guys in tech said) and read the communication that had been sent. 

“Okay. We’re headed out. Everybody on board," he announced a moment later. 

Still rambunctious, the STRIKE guys trooped up into the cargo hold of the quinjet, and Steve followed suit. Natasha didn’t move. She bit her lip for such a long time that you felt compelled to prompt her: 

“Problem, Natasha?” 

Blinking again, she shook her head. “No, of course not. I just didn’t know _he_ knew about your little fling at the Christmas party. But I can work around that.” 

“Nat,” you sighed, “honestly, Clint’s the one with arrows. Can’t you just leave the Cupid-ing to him?” 

Something in her features hardened. “No.” 

“Natasha,” you said again, though much more quietly since now the two of you were headed into the jet yourselves. The boys were making a lot of noise as they strapped in, but not enough that you felt entirely comfortable having this conversation at regular volume. “Seriously, just stop. This is a disaster waiting to happen. Captain Rogers wouldn’t like a girl like me.” 

“What kind of girl are you supposed to be?” 

You shrugged, but Natasha stood waiting for an explanation. Really, you couldn’t think of anything more than that you weren’t Steve’s type, especially if he’d seen you at the party. Though you’d never exchanged words with him, you knew from the way your coworkers gossiped that Captain America didn’t really have _friends_ at work. He was always polite, sure, but he wasn’t going to get to know you. The only way he would have known about you and Rumlow was if he’d walked in on it–and _that_ kind of girl _definitely_ wasn’t his type. 

“Steve has never _known_ a girl I suggested to him before,” Natasha said, more to herself than to you, and then the engines started and you lost the rest of what she was saying. The general location the team was headed to had been explained in Natasha’s roundup message; the flight would not be terribly lengthy. As such, you expected her to simply jump into outlining the directives as soon as the quinjet reached an altitude that allowed both conversation and freedom of movement. Instead, she simply picked up right where she had left off: “I think this is a good idea.” 

“Natasha. He _saw_ me–” 

“Captain Rogers is slower than molasses,” she streamrolled right over you, “and despite what everyone at the Christmas party thinks, you’re not much faster. You’re not as _shy_ ,” she admitted, finally looking straight at you, “but that might be good for him. And Cap’s a good guy. You need that after that little Rumlow episode of yours.” 

“Is there any way I can persuade you to stop this madness?” you asked flatly. 

“ _Trust_ me, [Name]. This is going to be good for both of you.” 

“Can you at least wait until after we get back home alive?” 

She did not answer. Acting as though she had not heard a word you had said, Natasha moved to other end of the hold and everyone followed. You moved slowly enough that you were _sure_ you’d be at the back and therefore able to avoid having comments thrown at you–and yet you thought you felt someone large right behind you. _Don’t look,_ you told yourself. _It’ll only upset you more._ How Natasha expected you to concentrate on work when she was trying to pair you off with _Captain America_ , you had no idea…except for the small detail where you were an adult, not a sixteen-year-old girl. You focused your eyes painfully hard on the screen Natasha was pointing at. 

“Our goal is the Zodiac Virus,” she was telling the now intently-listening STRIKE team. A very old, very yellowed photograph of a glass vial filled with something dark was brought up on screen. One of the men lifted his hand. “Yes?” 

“Don’t we _have_ the Zodiac Virus? That was one of the first thing SHIELD _did_.” 

“Your information is outdated, Rollins. We _had_ the virus. It was stolen three days ago–by this man.” A new picture came up on the screen, this one more recent but much less helpful. The blurred image of a man surrounded by a sea similarly faceless people was so nondescript that you would not have known the bald head and red beard belonged to the culprit had Natasha not circled him with a laser pointer. “We know his name is Baker. That’s it.” 

“Who’d he steal it for?” 

“We don’t know.” 

“What do you mean, we don’t know?” 

“I mean, we don’t know. Presumably this is a terrorist organization, but all we have is to go on is the man that stole it from our facility. That’s it.” 

“What kind of terrorist organization doesn’t even have a _name_?” Rumlow demanded. 

“One that doesn’t leave behind any paperwork,” Natasha said with a smile, then continued onto a picture of a building that looked abandoned, but you were sure was high tech on the inside. “Here’s where we’re going.” _Click._ “Here are the best blueprints our team could draw up based on satellites. We think the virus is being held here.” She pointed at room in the center. “As far as we can know, there are thirty-five personnel members inside. [Name] and I will do the breaking in, take down whatever security there is. STRIKE, you’re on defense duty, which,” she added loudly over the several squawks of disapproval, “ _means_ offense. You’re taking out people that want to take the rest of us out, so quit whining. And Captain Rogers…” 

“Save the hostages?” 

“No hostages this time. You're going to get Zodiac for us.” 

“Couldn’t anybody get that virus?” 

“Probably.” 

“Why did Fury want me on this?” 

“He just did. Any not stupid questions?” she asked the rest of the group. No one made a sound. “Good. We’ll be there in,” a quick look at her watch, “t-minus ten minutes. Get prepared, boys.” 

The crowd began to part, grabbing com units and checking the weapons they had on them. Natasha made quite a show of putting her slideshow paraphernalia away, leaving you to get ready yourself. That didn’t mean much if you were really just there for taking down the security. Sure, you’d probably have to physically fight a few people, but STRIKE would be around to take out most of them. As an added bonus, it sounded like Natasha would be too far away from Steve to try more of her matchmaking business. This was such a pleasant thought that you spun on the spot only to walk straight into a large chest. You rocketed backward only to be caught by a pair of similarly large hands, so you knew before looking who it was you had just ran into. 

“You okay?” Steve asked as he removed his hands. 

“I…uh…yeah,” you managed to sputter. 

“Sorry. I probably should have got a move on more quickly.” 

“No, no. I wasn’t paying attention. Not really a great trait for an agent to have.” Another reason you should have gone into accounting like your aunt suggested. Also so that you wouldn’t have to have had this conversation. You _much_ preferred admiring Steve from afar. This close, it was hard to ignore the sensation that he was judging you. 

“I’m sure you’re a fine agent. Everyone else here is fantastic.” 

Was he…Was he giving you a pep talk? You could have buried your face into your hands right then and there, you were so mortified. “I–I didn’t mean I couldn’t do the job,” you stammered. “Or that you need to boost my ego or anything. I…I…” 

You trailed away at the look of vague confusion on his face, and took a deep breath before pressing a palm to your forehead. Between this and the Christmas party, you would be lucky if Steve didn’t report you to Fury and get you fired. Deciding that really should be the end of your interactions with him, you looked around to see if Natasha was nearby to give you any tools you might need for the mission. Unfortunately, she was still right where she had been five minutes ago, but she was no longer busy. Instead, she was watching your conversation with Steve quite intently, and when she caught your eye, she motioned for you to continue. You shook your head; Natasha scowled. 

And then there was a massive " _crash_ ," and the entire jet pitched to one side. 

“We’ve been hit,” said a voice over the intercom. “Left wing no longer functioning. Crash imminent. Please prepare to evacuate.” 

“Must be them,” Natasha shouted over the renewed sounds of people pounding their way about the cargo hold. “We’re not far from their base. Grab a parachute. I’ll text coordinates to a meeting place as soon as I’m able. _Go!_ ” 

A rack of parachutes hung nearby. You had just enough time to see Natasha start to pull one on when– 

_"BANG"_

The entire quinjet lurched upward and then started to fall. Your fingers only just missed the strap of the nearest chute before you began to tumble backward. Flashes of grey-black-white-black-white-grey shot by the corners of your eyes, something _much_ less interesting than a replay of your life would have been–and that’s when that should have started. The STRIKE team had already started evacuating. Most of what you could hear was the deteriorating plane, but somewhere behind and beneath came excited shouts of “Yahoo!” and “Giddyup!” 

“Damn,” was what _you_ said as you flew through the open back and the cold morning air whipped your hair around your face. 


	2. The Windup

The wind whistled in your ears as you fell, fell, fell from the rapidly disappearing quinjet. The STRIKE team’s voices faded entirely, leaving you with nothing but the sound of the grinding engine as the flaming body of the plane soared further and further away. An accountant. Why hadn’t you become an accountant? Your aunt had asked you time and time again. You were good with numbers, and at least then you wouldn’t have died in such a mortifying fashion: falling unprepared out of the back of a jet, with coffee stains down your front and your hair a mass of tangles. In the end, nothing about your life had been glamorous, least of all yourself.

And poor Natasha still up there. You’d have felt sorry for her, if you didn’t already know full well she’d get out because there was no _way_ her last act in life had been to try to get Steve Rogers to ask you on a date. _Your_ last act was going to be that awkward conversation, though. If she thought you weren’t going to spend your afterlife haunting her, she was sorely mistaken.

Just when you had come to grips with this underwhelming end to your life, something dark burst out of the distant quinjet, black against the slowly yellowing sky. The shape was above you in a matter of seconds, wrapping thick arms around you and steadying you against its chest. You expected next a yank upward, some sign of a pulled parachute–but there was none. The muscular body in front of you had no straps on its torso. Were they _crazy_? To come out here only to die with you?

You screwed up your eyes, anticipating that final hard smack. There were worse ways to go, you were sure-not that you could think of any at the present moment. As you tried to come up with one or two, you felt the arms around you shift slightly, pulling something forward, just in time for you– _CLANG!_ –to hit the ground. Your back slammed into something hard and a _crack_ followed almost immediately. Black spots bloomed across your vision too quickly for you to worry much about the pain in your side. Your lungs heaved, but no oxygen entered them. So this was death. So this was the end. So this was your so-called rescuer rolling off you to reveal a sky spinning with grey clouds.

“Are you alright?” asked a deep voice.

You gasped, which served the dual purpose of getting you breathing and forcing you to sit up. Forget the pain you felt all over; that was nothing compared to what you felt at the sound of that voice. Sure enough, kneeling beside you, concern written all over his face, was Steve. “You!”

He blinked and looked around. Seeing no one else in the near vicinity, he looked back at you and pointed at his face. “Me?”

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

You were being irrational. You _knew_ you were being irrational. Steve’s expression changing to one of mild exasperation wasn’t necessary to tell you just how irrational you were being. But, oh God, his pep talk from the plane was fresh in your mind. Peggy Carter had never had to be rescued in such embarrassing fashion, you were pretty sure–or ever at all.

“I thought you might want some help after you fell out of the plane,” Steve answered, like he thought that your question hadn’t been rhetorical. Well, if he was going to make it non-rhetorical:

“Why didn’t _Natasha_ come after me? She had a parachute!” Natasha _always_ had a parachute. _She_ was a good agent, unlike _you_.

“I don’t know. She said you’d fallen out and pushed me toward the exit. Was I supposed to have done something else? Did you want to die?”

The accusation in his tone stung, but you weren’t about to give Steve the satisfaction of seeing that. Still breathing raggedly and throbbing with every breath in, you forced yourself off his shield and into a seated position on the broken cement. Moving only made the pain in your side sharpen; you couldn’t entirely avoid wincing as you settled in. Of course, that Steve had to notice _that_.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a somewhat softer tone. 

You shot him a look of pure venom. “Fine.”

He frowned at your answer, but didn’t press. Instead, he just stood up to his full height to look at you. His silhouette against the sunrise was just as impressive as you had imagined, and–oh, god, were you going loopy? That fall really must have done a number on your head. Time to shut this one down. Clamping down on your lower lip, you managed to struggle to your feet, only to ruin the effect by gasping again and instinctively pressing your hand to the stabbing pain where you had hit Steve's shield. “Shi–”

Blush flooded your cheeks as you realized you had just been about to swear in front of Steve. Apparently Natasha had only asked you along on this mission to make sure you embarrassed yourself irreparably. Rumlow wouldn’t have cared if you’d cussed. He’d have laughed. Rumlow wasn’t Steve. That was kind of the point. Freezing in your tracks, you cast your gaze back at your companion to find him watching with that same stern expression he'd worn earlier. You would have to ignore the pain, because you couldn’t stand to be in that spot a moment longer.

“Where are you going?” You glanced once behind yourself, then kept going. “Where are you going?” Steve called a second time.

“To find the rest of the team,” you snapped. Your whirling on the spot to face him was less than impressive, what with the death grip you still had on your side. Steve regarded you for a long minute, then sighed and scooped his shield off the pavement. It left a crater just its size behind. He ignored this damage to what was likely private property, simply sliding the shield into place before following briskly after you.

“Which way?” he asked when he arrived at your side. 

You blinked at him, still slightly hunched over your injury. “Huh?”

“Which way are we headed? I assume you got a comset. Mine broke on reentry.” Steve gestured with his chin back toward the crater. Sure enough, there it was: a crumpled mess of shattered black plastic and twisted metal. You lifted a finger to your ear.

“Natasha, do you have a ground position?” you said. A cold chill crept up your spine at the lack of answer. Either she was in trouble, or already dead. “Natasha. Natasha, come i–goddammit!” You realized, just then, that no, you had _not_ picked up a comset. It was back on the burning remains of the jet along with your damn parachute and dignity.

“Didn’t get one of those either?” Steve asked.

Oh, that was _it_. You spun back to him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I tried. I was going to get one _and_ a parachute, but I ran into you instead. There wasn’t any time for me to grab one before we were hit.”

“So you’re saying that all of this is my fault?”

“N–You know what, yes!” The pounding pain in your side was so great that you couldn’t think straight. That was your only excuse for this sort of behavior–but use it you would, because you wouldn’t be hurt like this if Steve hadn’t decided to come crashing to your rescue. If he’d just stayed behind, you would have been dead, and hoo boy wouldn’t that have been preferable to what you were suffering now. “I can actually do my job most of the time, you know? If you hadn’t been here to distract me and get Natasha all riled up, I would have had the parachute and a comset, and have been halfway toward Baker’s hideout by now.”

Steve lifted his chin. You didn’t back down. It was all true, wasn’t it? He’d had to stop for that stupid excuse for a pep talk, and it wasn’t like Natasha had been encouraging you to focus on the mission before that. Unfortunately, his next words cracked your stony façade:

“How on earth did I get Natasha riled up?”

Too late, you realized you had given up her game. The blush rose again all the way to your hairline. If there was ever a SHIELD agent incapable of keeping her cool, it was you just then. “Nothing. She’s just Natasha. I–dammit!”

You doubled over with a surge of pain in your side. For a moment, the world around you spun again and your breath caught in your chest. Things stayed that way for just a few seconds before you felt a warm pair of hands steadying you once more. You sucked in some air and tremulously looked up at him. “[Name]–Agent [L Name],” Steve hastily corrected himself.

“What?”

“You’re injured.”

Forcing yourself to straighten up took much longer than you would have liked. “I’m fine,” you said once that was done, though both of you knew that wasn’t true. For a second time, the look on Steve’s face hardened. He had not, you noticed with some trepidation, taken his hands off of you.

“Let me see,” he commanded. The order, combined with his countenance, made it impossible for you to refuse. Wincing, you nodded. His hands moved with surprising care up your abdomen. You hissed when his fingers pressed into the exact spot it hurt. Steve lessened the pressure, but focused his attention on that area. He only grew graver as he did.

“I think your rib is broken.”

You stared at Steve, dumbstruck. Then: “No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That can’t be what happened.” It sure as hell _felt_ like that was what happened, but you weren’t about to allow yourself to suffer the indignity of that failure on top of all the rest. You made a brave stab at another step–and had to stop immediately due to how much doing so hurt. Again, Steve was there in a flash.

“You should sit down,” he said firmly with a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll see if I can’t get ahold of anyone to come pick you up. You need medical evacuation, stat.”

You drew in a very deep breath. Now was not the time to yell at Steve. Clearly yelling at Steve had very little effect on him anyway. “Your comset is broken,” you reminded him. This did not deter him from marching past you, though he did turn back to answer:

“I know.”

“Then how exactly do you plan to get someone here to pick me up?”

“I’ll head to the target point. I saw it on the map, and I know where to go. The rest of the team should be headed in that direction. If not, I’ll retrieve Zodiac, then inform SHIELD of your whereabouts when–”

“ _Excuse me_?” Steve wasn't used to being interrupted, that much was clear. Had your head been equally clear, you probably wouldn’t have been so aghast at what he was saying that you had to interrupt. “You’re _leaving_ me here?”

“You’re in no condition to–”

“What if you get taken out? What if the rest of the team is dead or unable to get to the target? What then, Captain Rogers?”

Either Steve had to take a few minutes to make sure he didn’t snap at you for all your insubordination, or he had about as much of a clue about what to do from this point as you did: not very much. Finally, he inhaled and settled his hands on his belt buckle. “Agent [L Name], your dedication to Rumlow is admirable, but in this sort of situation, your presence would be more of a hindrance than a help.”

There was a lot to be offended at in that sentence. So much that normally you wouldn’t have had any idea where to begin. At that exact moment, however, you could only gape at Steve while one point tried to get through your head. “My dedication to _who_?” you demanded.

“Agent Rumlow,” Steve repeated. “Your boyfriend.”

“I wouldn’t mind making sure _Nat_ is okay.” Heaven knew no one else at work would sit with you at lunch, especially given Clint’s propensity to simply not show up for weeks at time because he was too busy falling in love or rescuing dogs from the Russian mob. Take Natasha out of the equation, and you’d be eating at the unpopular kids table for the rest of your short life. Not that that was really the important thing here. “Agent Rumlow is _not_ my boyfriend.”

Steve blinked at you. “Are the two of you engaged?”

“No!” you burst out, loud enough that Steve actually backed away from you. Yes, he backed away and actually _relaxed_ a little. That made no sense at all; you must have been imagining things. “Brock Rumlow isn’t my anything.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I, uh…accidentally walked in a room the two of you had at the party last year. After what I saw, I just assumed…” he trailed off into embarrassed silence. His embarrassment, however, could be nothing in comparison to your own.

“That was a mistake. I had too much to drink, and–I don’t know, it just _happened_.”

“Really?” Now he was _smiling_. What on earth he had to smile about, you didn’t know. Regardless of whether or not Rumlow regularly had his tongue down your throat these days, both of you were still stranded at an abandoned docking station in the middle of nowhere. “Because last week he said he was taking you out to dinner.”

“Huh?”

“I take it he did not take you out to dinner,” Steve observed. What tipped him off? Probably the rising color in your cheeks. You tried, however, to breathe and speak normally when you asked:

“What _else_ has Agent Rumlow been saying about me?”

For whatever reason–and you had a pretty good idea of what reason it could be–Steve blushed at this question. “I don’t really…not polite to repeat…” he trailed away.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re leaving,” you said flatly, forcing yourself to walk upright in a straight line the way Steve had been headed.

“Wait. You’re still not well enough to–”

“I don’t care. We’re getting there and getting this done, and then I am going to find Rumlow and murder him with my own two hands.”

“The two hands connected to your broken rib?”

He had you there. Rumlow was a major figure not just in SHIELD, but the STRIKE team as well. But you were no slouch, and you were well aware of that. “It might take me awhile to warm up,” you told Steve, “but I can be just as good as Natasha and Clint. There’s a reason they let me hang around them so much.”

“I know.” There was not a hint of sarcasm in Steve’s voice. “Still might be hard with the broken rib. You might need some help. I hold him down, you do the punching.”

There was a curve to Steve’s lips, you’d swear it. He didn’t sound like he was making fun of you though. Had you actually died back there and found yourself in some bizarre version of hell? “I don’t think that’d be within company regulations.”

“Probably not,” Steve agreed. “But if he’d said what he said about you in front of me back when I weighed ninety pounds, I would have taken him outside for sure. I’m not sure if even Bucky would have been able to pry me off.”

You allowed Steve a tiny smile, then it was back to business. “First we gotta find him, though.”

“Right.” Even he didn’t sound too hopeful now. Why should he? He was the only one who knew for sure where the exact location was; all you had was a general direction. You were injured and a hot mess, and now really wasn’t the time to be just the slightest bit thrilled over Steve’s concern over your rib, or that he wanted to help you grind Rumlow into a pulp. For goodness sake, the two of you were all alone and after what was a neigh invisible terrorist group. You _had_ to pull yourself together, and you did, literally pulling yourself up straight and managing to take several strides forward without folding over once. “You coming?”

Steve was practically grinning. That was odd, but you were starting to think Steve himself was odd. Handsome and brave and smart and strong, but odd. He fell into easy step beside you, not in front of. This was probably just to be on hand if you collapsed. Was it so wrong to hope it was just because he wanted to talk to you, though? Probably. What would Captain America want with you?

“So what’s the plan when we get there, anyway?” you asked conversationally as the abandoned docks disappeared behind you. Even if he was walking beside you as an equal, you were well aware that Steve outranked you on several counts. If there was any lead to follow, it was his. He was quiet for a few steps before he answered:

“We can’t assume Natasha and the others will be there. I didn’t see Natasha get out of the plane, and even though STRIKE did, we can’t just figure that they weren’t picked off by Baker’s men, or that they’ll be within easy walking distance.”

You agreed with that. Hell, it made sense. Natasha had to be alive, though. Who else was going to spend the rest of the mission making up cockamamie reasons to shove you and Steve into janitorial closets when you got back to work? Being well aware of how agents weren’t technically supposed to have feelings–especially when still on a mission–you felt your throat clog up with the thought of Natasha being dead in the flaming wreckage of a quinjet somewhere. Steve noticed; he touched your elbow gently.

“Natasha will be okay,” he said firmly. “She’s tough.”

“Aye,” came an unfamiliar voice from behind. The hand on your elbow stiffened, as did your spine. Looking around, you saw that from every decrepit building around you came some figure dressed in all black. The way you had come was already closed up by numerous people in similar clothes. Standing in front of them was the only familiar one of the bunch: a bald man with a bright red beard–and he was grinning. “The red-head woman was pretty tough. How do you think the two of you will fare?”


	3. The Swing

“Baker,” said Steve. He inclined his head stiffly, never taking his suddenly icy gaze off of the man in front of him. 

Baker grinned. “Captain Rogers. I should have figured that Director Fury would send _you_ to retrieve this little sample from me. May I inquire as to the specifics of your pretty little friend here? I don’t believe she was on the guest list.”

You snarled, but said nothing. Brash you might have been, but even you were well aware that attracting a villain’s attention while injured was not a great decision. There was no reason to give this man or any of his lackeys a reason to break a limb, or perhaps shoot you in the gut. Okay, you could think of _one_ reason–that this would make your broken rib feel less painful in comparison–but it was entirely overshadowed by your desire to not bungle things more than you already had.

Steve still had his hand on your elbow. This Baker noticed, or so you assumed by the way his eyes fell upon the contact and a slow smile spread across his face.

“Your girlfriend, perhaps?” he asked.

A faint dusting of pink spread across Steve’s cheeks. You had a feeling your own cheeks weren’t their normal color either, but who the hell cared at a time like this? You were not Natasha. Getting laid was _not_ your MO this time around. It was saving the world from a virus, and then turning your ex into cream of wheat. “You must be a pretty crappy terrorist if you’re more concerned with Captain Rogers’ love life than you are about getting your sorry ass kicked from here back to D.C.,” you piped up.

Surely you saw Steve smile at that. You felt a tiny rush of pleasure at having managed to do something right that day, even if taunting the enemy wasn’t strictly following SHIELD guidelines. Baker noticed the smiling, too, and his own smile fell off his face immediately.

“I suppose this boast is in regards to Captain America,” he said, "as we both know _you_ are unable of kicking any asses in your present state. A broken rib?” His voice was light, but you felt a shiver climb up your spine. Despite the pain, you stood straight as a ramrod. How much had Baker heard? Too much. That was all you knew. “If you’d just agree to submit, we could get you back to base. I have a medical team, you realize. And I do like my rivals in the best condition when I beat them.”

“Oh, cram it up your–”

“I’ve got this, Agent [L Name].” Steve released you. You must have been relying on him to stay upright much more than you had noticed, because just his letting go of your elbow had your rib cage aching and tears pricking at the backs of your eyes as you tried to remain upright. Steve’s gaze remained stonily on Baker as Steve turned completely toward him. “Cram it up your shorts, Baker.”

Baker, far from looking taken aback, simply smirked. His followers around him hooted...hooted, in fact, in a way that sounded all too familiar. You played back the past hour or so of this disaster of an outing, but there was nothing there to clue you into what you were hearing for a second time. What had you been expecting? A parliament of owls out on that dock? No, you were only hearing the echo of every other group of too-big-for-their-britches terrorists that thought they could beat the snot out of you and leave.

“You’re not really in any condition to be tossing insults around, Captain Rogers,” Baker was saying when you returned your attention to the present. “We have you surrounded, and your only hope has already been taken care of. You can hardly get both yourself and Miss [L Name] here to safety. Her odds of getting out alone are negligible at best.”

“Let’s see about that.”

Steve practically dripped confidence. You yourself weren’t so sure. Captain America usually had a team–whether it was the Commandos or STRIKE or the Avengers. He was alone here, unless you counted yourself. Not that you doubted that Steve could take them down if he really put his mind to it, but the two of you _were_ pretty well outnumbered. The last thing you needed to go in your record was “sole witness to Captain America’s _actual_ death.”

The battle started–cliché of clichés–while you were blinking. One second, everyone was standing around and bristling at each other. The next, Steve and the opposing group were racing toward one another. You stood up a little straighter. Just in time. A surprising number of the terrorist goons gunned straight for you, rather than the glory that might have come from taking down Captain America. Then again, if these guys were a pack of wolves, you were the limping deer at the back of the herd. You screwed your eyes shut just in time for the first assault.

Eyes closing? Not the best plan in the entire world. Your fist shot out. When your eyes popped open again, you saw that your swing had missed your closest assailant by a mile. Their face was covered by a thick mask, completely obscuring their face and therefore their reaction, but it couldn’t have been sympathetic. After all, it left you open for them to swing their police baton straight at your head.

“What kind of terrorist uses a police baton?” you asked as you knocked it away with your wrist.

“Apparently the kind that doesn’t leave paperwork,” Steve shouted.

You cracked a smile, even though your injured rib felt like it was going to start poking out of your skin at any minute. Another duck, another missed punch, and your opponent fell after you switched tactics and swept his legs out from underneath him. The man went crashing down onto the ground, helmeted head striking the cement just once before he fell still. 

Weird, but just fine with you. It gave you ample opportunity to swing at the next trio coming at you. The pain coming from your chest was nearly blinding, but you could see well enough to continue fighting. The question was just how many goons you could take down before your body gave out.

As it turned out? Eight.

It never got to the point of you using lethal force. You didn’t need to. As soon as one man fell, he fell for good. And then one came upon you quicker than the rest. You scrabbled for your pistol, but too late. You hardly had it out of the holster before he had kicked it clear of your hand, wrenched your arm backward, and against your best intentions, forced a weak cry from your throat as he pressed the heel of his hand to your busted rib. Steve heard. He stopped, eyes flashing in your direction. 

“Drop the shield, Captain Rogers,” Baker barked from the front. Apparently he hadn’t decided to take part in the zerg rush with his underlings. “Unless, of course, you want your lady friend to die?”

This wouldn’t work. This was Captain America. He wasn’t going to give in to some terrorist’s demands. He–

The shield hit the cement. You had forgotten: This was Captain America. He wasn’t going to let someone get taken hostage on his watch. At least you had avoided the further embarrassment of begging him either way, but good god, how did the man ever get anything done? The man holding you chuckled, then leaned close to whisper in your ear:

“Not exactly Margaret Carter, are you, Agent [L Name]?”

You stamped on his foot. The grunt that issued from within the helmet sounded almost as familiar as the hooting from earlier. Your eyes widened–but no. Your ex might have been a repugnant asshole, but he was a _loyal_ repugnant asshole. Maybe all of those types sounded the same. You were not granted the time to consider this for long. The man’s head snapped up toward Steve, then back to you, and then–before you could move, before you could even register his intentions–jammed his police baton into the sore spot on your chest. You heard Steve cry out.

The world went dark.

******

A pounding headache returned you to the world of the living. Your first recollection being of having someone whack you in the chest while on a mission, you sat up with every intention of whacking back. The sudden motion made your head spin, and your stomach didn’t take long to follow. Groaning, you rolled over, but there was nothing in your stomach to throw up. As you stared at the shiny white tile below, you realized that quite some time must have passed.

Sure enough, you were no longer standing in an empty warehouse district. You were instead laying in a pristine cell. The blinding lights hitting all the white wasn’t doing anything to help your headache, and your headache wasn’t doing anything to help you see. Otherwise, you might have been able to see that you were not, as you thought upon slowly trying to sit back up, alone. Immediately, a hand landed on your shoulder.

“You awake?”

You groaned, not only because you felt like an Asgardian had thrown an ax into your frontal lobe, but also because even after all you’d been through, some higher power still thought it was funny to let Steve observe you at your absolute worst. At this point, you weren’t surprised. You didn’t so much as try to look at him, knowing your nearly-fried brain was likely to do something stupid, such as decide to connect its inane babbling about Steve’s handsomeness to your mouth. Not that Steve contracting his fingers around said shoulder was going to prevent that.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like cow dung,” you answered, just barely managing to avoid further embarrassment by saying how you _really_ felt.

“Cow dung that can move?”

“Maybe.”

“Good,” said Steve. “Because I need your help.”

He disappeared as quickly as he had materialized next to you. This left you with no other choice but to force yourself into a seated position to follow him with your eyes. The bright, faintly buzzing lights above your head swam in and out of focus. Steve’s figure did, too, but somehow he was easier to follow. Maybe it was just that he was more solid, even as he moved to another wall and pounded on it with one massive fist–because, you saw, he no longer had his shield.

“What do you need _my_ help with?” you asked. Whether it was your rapidly deteriorating mental state or just your usual Steve-nerves talking, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that you hurt all over, could barely see, and had thus far proved to have all the usefulness of a used q-tip on this mission. If Steve needed some check balancing done, maybe you could help…except that you were pretty sure you’d forgotten a lot of that math since starting up with SHIELD fresh out of college, and–there went your brain again, off on some wild tangent. At least this time it wasn’t about Steve’s shapely rear end, which was quite shapely even this bad lighting.

Oh, god _dammit_.

“–approximately eight hours. The satellites didn’t show anything capable of copying the virus, but they didn't show anything like this room either,” Steve was saying. He had started his explanation while you were in la-la-land. You forced yourself to sit up straighter (bad idea) and focus on his words. “If they do have the capability, they could have already reproduced plenty of vials to have on hand. The longer we wait, the more chance they have to distribute it. Which means we need to get out of here, now. We can’t wait for Natasha to break us out.”

Was that what Steve had been doing since you blacked out? Waiting for Natasha? You hated to burst his bubble, but, “Baker said Natasha’s dead,” you said flatly.

"A team equipped with batons couldn’t take Natasha out unless she wanted taken out,” Steve said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t know what her game is, wanting taken out, but when we get back, I intend to find out.”

He had a point, you’d give him that much. At the same time, Natasha was your _friend_. You could think of only one reason that she’d purposely get herself removed from the mission, and even _she_ wasn’t crazy enough to do that. Fury would kill her, or at least glower at her for a few days whenever they passed in the hall. “Could be faking. Waiting to swoop in and save the day,” you said half-heartedly, wondering if you were trying to convince Steve or yourself. 

He shook his head. “We can’t rely on her. We still need out.”

It was only then that it dawned on you that your companion was somewhat different than before. You’d never had the impression that Steve was all that thrilled about you tagging along, injured and all–and clearly, given the time you’d just wasted passing out while a mysterious group had access to a deadly virus, he’d been right–but now he was downright _tense_. Every muscle in his body looked pulled tight; one kept pulsing in his jaw. You’d seen him annoyed before from afar, but never blatantly angry, and never up close.

“Captain Rogers,” you started. Steve began to press his huge hands against the bare, blank walls. “Captain Rogers?”

Without so much as acknowledging your growing anxiety, he pulled one arm back and thrust his fist forward into the wall. This resulted in absolutely nothing. Steve grunted, and punched again. Again. Again. The whole room shook, but nothing else happened to indicate he was doing anything at all except asking for a broken knuckle.

“Captain Rogers!” No answer. You heaved yourself forward toward him, reaching his side just as he readied another blow. “Steve.”

He stopped. It was so sudden that for one wild moment, you thought something awful had happened, like maybe he had been shot. Then you realized that Steve had frozen because he was staring at you–or, more accurately, at your hand that now had a gentle grip on his bicep. You flushed as soon as you laid eyes on that yourself, and stepped back. Still he said nothing at all, his blue eyes moving to rest on your face.

Feeling self-conscious, you looked away with a deep breath. Okay, sure, every single molecule of your being hurt, but you’d had worse before. Probably. Time to knuckle down–no pun intended–and get this mission done. Then you could go to sleep and let your brain dream whatever it wanted to about Steve and his ass. Until then: Focus.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked. 

Steve blinked, and seemed to come back to himself. He looked from your face to the unmarked place in the wall that he had recently been pounding on, then back again. “We need to get out of here.”

“I realize that,” you said with forced calm. “Obviously, beating the wall isn’t getting us anywhere. I’m asking why you keep trying that. Definition of insanity, and all.”

“They must have been prepared for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Normally I just burst through the doors. There aren’t any doors.”

That sounded like it was supposed to be a joke. Steve wasn’t the most joke-y person in the world, but how could anyone say something like that in all seriousness? If he was trying to be funny, however, the effect was ruined by his continuing to look unnaturally grim. He seemed far angrier than before. He was still too much a gentleman to show you that, but you could tell anyway, through the subtle stiffness of his massive shoulders and the way his mouth never once shifted from its thin line. If he was difficult to approach normally, he was practically impossible when he looked fit to kill the next person that crossed him. Still, you had to try.

“Come on, Captain Rogers. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit.” Embarrassing, of course, but at least it got Steve to look at you. You crossed your arms over your chest and lifted a single eyebrow. “What happened while I was out on the floor? You’re pissed. Cough it up.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Captain.”

“Steve,” he said after a pause.

“Huh?”

Steve inhaled deeply and turned all of his attention to you. The effect was disconcerting, but you forced yourself to keep looking him. “You called me Steve, earlier. Just call me Steve. You don’t have to…” He shook his head, then plowed on, “What’s wrong is that you’re hurt. I let you come along and get more hurt. Now I can’t even get us out of this damn–” He slammed his fist once more on the wall to make his point, then fell silent.

You would not have believed that it was possible, but somehow Steve’s silence was worse than nearly anything else. Worse than his judgement, worse than his pep talk, worse than his belief that you and Rumlow were somehow involved. If the only thing to end this silence was using his name, then that was what you would have to do, no matter how awkward it felt. And boy howdy, did it feel awkward.

“St-Steve,” you said. Heaven knew how you’d managed to say it normally before. Probably just panic over Steve’s behavior. Nothing else could have driven you to try to sound familiar with Captain America. You swallowed and tried again: “Steve. Okay. Look.” He did. “I’m a SHIELD agent, you know? I’ve had worse than some banged up ribs and a headache. Like I said, Clint and Natasha ask me to go with them on things, and _I’m_ usually the one that gets hurt on those, since Clint stays at a distance and–well, Natasha’s good at seducing people. I’m not. So don’t go getting it in your head that you need to baby me. You don’t.”

“But–”

“And,” you interrupted, “if you could just stop hitting things, my head might stop hurting long enough to figure out a way out–because, in case you have forgotten, the other skill I don’t have is super strength. I have experience getting out of cells the hard way.”

You stared at him. Steve stared back. Ready as you were for any argument, none came. He simply slid his hand off the wall with a sigh and took another deep breath. After a moment, he nodded, which was all the agreement you needed. You almost smiled with relief.

“So how do we get out?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know.” Funny, you hadn’t thought about having an actual plan when you’d been trying to calm Steve down. Now the entire mission rested on shoulders that could hardly remain squared without that sort of pressure upon them. “But I’ll figure it out,” you added when you saw something in his expression flicker. If nothing else, his no longer smashing the walls was keeping your headache under control. No reason to get him started up on that again. You straightened your back (ow, shit, _why_ ) and copied him, walking up to the wall and running your fingers along it for a few feet. Then you stopped and turned back to him. “In times like this, I always ask myself one question.”

“How the hell do you get out of a building without doors?”

“No. 'What would Agent Carter do?'”

Nothing else you’d said that evening seemed to have shocked Steve as much as that question. You almost regretted asking it, regardless of how many times you’d asked yourself the same question before. Having no idea what to apologize for, all you could was wilt slightly under the weight of his gaping. Well, if he _wanted_ to continue making absolutely no progress on this mission, he was free to ignore you.

“Why do you need to know that?” he asked.

You let out a breath. It wasn't a cease and desist order, so you had permission to carry on with your train of thought. “It’ll help. First off, she didn’t have super strength either, so she, too, had to deal with doors like the rest of us mortals. Agent Carter couldn’t break down a wall on her own.”

“Well, she could,” Steve broke in, “if she had something heavy on her.”

Even though doing so thus far hadn’t had any effect whatsoever on him, you threw Steve a look. “The only thing we have that’s heavy is you, and we’ve already tried that process enough, thanks. Besides, that’s not the only reason to think about her. The Zodiac virus was her first gig, you know. Got her on the radar. Basically set up the whole of SHIELD.”

While you spoke, your voice turned reverent. You hardly noticed, too preoccupied with continuing to walk in a loop against the wall. Every inch of the cell fit the description of nondescript. Outside of white and featureless, there was little to be said of it. But there had to be a door somewhere. How else could your captors have gotten you in?

“Steve?”

“What?”

“Were you unconscious when they brought us in here?”

“No. I–They made me carry you.”

Fantastic. Now was not the time to fret over that detail, though. You could wrestle with the thought when you were safe in your own bed later tonight. Either that, or you’d be dead, which might be the preferable course of action. Hard to tell from here. “So did you see how they opened the place?”

He shook his head. “I was blindfolded.”

“Didn’t get to take it off until they left?”

“Right.”

“Damn.” Perhaps it was a tribute to your growing relationship that you didn’t blush over your swearing, nor did you even stop to see how Steve reacted. You just kept up your work, brushing your fingers against the slick white walls, squinting against the glare from the overhead lights, until–“Ah.”

“Did you find anything?” Steve asked. Only then did you realize he was right behind you, both hands carefully positioned to catch you if you fell. He didn’t even try to explain himself, and so you rolled your eyes and gestured (painfully) with your head for him to step up beside you.

“Feel that?” you asked.

“What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“Air.”

Frowning, Steve crouched closer, closer, closer. Then: “Ah.”

“That’s what I said,” you said with a grin. “So there’s your door.”

Steve looked from you, to the minuscule crack, then to you again. Then, his hand bunched into a fist once more, and he smiled himself. A little too eagerly, in your opinion. Sure enough, you blinked, and in the middle of the darkness heard a tremendous crash. In the split second it had taken you to open your eyes, Steve had disappeared, and where there had been what appeared to be a solid white wall was now a gigantic hole.


End file.
